"That's the work of a profoundly disturbed mind," Fran said. She felt cold.
"It's the kind of thinking that got us into this mess to start with," Larry agreed. He flipped rapidly to the start of the book. "Time's wasting. Let's see what we can make of this."
Neither of them knew exactly what to expect. They had read nothing of the ledger except the boxed mottos and an occasional phrase or two which, mostly owing to Harold's convoluted style (the compound-complex sentence seemed to have been invented with Harold Lauder in mind), meant little or nothing.
What they saw at the ledger's beginning was therefore a complete shock.
The diary began at the top of the first facing page. It was neatly marked with a 1 in a circle. There was an indent here, the only indent in the whole book, as far as Frannie could tell, excepting those which began each boxed motto. They read that first sentence holding the ledger between them like children at a choir practice and Fran said "Oh!" in a small, strangled voice and stepped away, her hand pressed lightly to her mouth.
"Fran, we have to take the book," Larry said.
"Yes - "
"And show it to Stu. I don't know if Leo's right about them being on the dark man's side, but at the very least, Harold is dangerously disturbed. You can see that."
"Yes," she said again. She felt faint, weak. So this was how the matter of the diaries ended. It was as if she had known, as if she had known it all from the moment she saw that big smudged thumbprint, and she had to keep telling herself not to faint, not to faint.
"Fran? Frannie? Are you all right?"
Larry's voice. From far away.
The first sentence in Harold's ledger: My great pleasure this delightful post-Apocalypse summer will be to kill Mr. Stuart Dog-Cock Redman; and just maybe I will kill her, too.
"Ralph? Ralph Brentner, you home? Hooo-hooo, anybody home? "
She stood on the steps, looking at the house. No motorcycles in the yard, only a couple of bikes parked around to one side. Ralph would have heard her, but there was the mute to think about. The deaf-mute. You could holler until you were blue and he wouldn't answer and still he, might be there.
Shifting her shopping bag from one arm to the other, Nadine tried the door and found it unlocked. She stepped inside out of the fine mist which was falling. She was in a small foyer. Four steps went up to the kitchen, and a flight of them went down to the basement area where, Harold said Andros had his apartment. Putting her most pleasant expression on her face, Nadine went downstairs, fixing her excuse in her mind if he should be there.
I came right in because I didn't think you'd know I was knocking. Some of us wanted to know if there's going to be a late shift wrapping those two motors that blew. Did Brad say anything to you?
There were only two rooms down here. One of them was a bedroom as simple as a monk's cell. The other was a study. There was a desk, a big chair, a wastebasket, a bookcase. The top of the desk was littered with scraps of paper and she looked through them idly. Most of them made little sense to her - she guessed they were Nick's side of some conversation (I guess so, but shouldn't we ask him if it can be done in some simpler way? one of them read). Others seemed to be memos to himself, jottings, thoughts. A few of them reminded her of the boxes in Harold's ledger, what he called his "Guideposts to a Better Life" with a sarcastic smile.
One read: Talk to Glen about trade. Do any of us know how trade starts? Scarcity of goods, isn't it? Or a modified corner on some market? Skills. That may be a key word. What if Brad Kitchner decides to sell instead of giving away? Or the doc? What would we pay with? Hmmm.
Another: Community protection is a two-way street.
Another: Every time we talk about the law I spend the night having nightmares about Shoyo. Watching them die. Watching Childress throw his supper around the cell. The law, the law, what do we do about the goddamned law? Capital punishment. Now there's a smiley thought. When Brad gets the power on, how long before someone asks him to rig up an electric chair?
She turned away from the scraps - reluctantly. It was fascinating to look through papers left by a man who could think wholly only by writing (one of her college profs had been fond of saying that the thought process can never be complete without articulation), but her purpose down here was already completed. Nick was not here, no one was here. To linger overlong would be to press her luck unnecessarily.